


the little things

by realbear



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Other, implied ship anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 06:16:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3925999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/realbear/pseuds/realbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A window closed, or open. Things to make them hurt less.<br/>[tips and bits of cole's small day-to-day helping]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Iron Bull

**Author's Note:**

> I unno how often I'll be updating this, but it'd be nice if I did all characters, maybe... We'll see. 8~)

The Iron Bull, 'The' as a joke, but it becomes real, and so does he. Sometimes, he worries, he knows he isn't the joke.

Fresh ink, a new quill, not a real feather, but he doesn't have to worry about it break to write. The armor on the side, belts on a chair. A hole in his pants, fast fixed, the needle made me bleed on it. He didn't notice.

The smell of flesh, blood, victory on him. Words, loud. Always doubting, but calls me kid, just like Varric. A child he wouldn't raise, scary. Friend. Family. He never knew the word, but he knows the feeling.

Honey in the mead, smile on his lips, he sees the man coming in the tavern and knows which angle his neck would snap. Warm hands, voices smile at him. One-two-three, then he breaks the spine.

If you hold yourself, he trusts. Follow the leader, the battle. He wants to be scared, but he knows otherwise. His heart and his head and his hands.

He learned to like me. He doesn't trust, twist the knee, dislocate the right arm, break him like a twig. Never trust demons, even small, squirrelly. Hear him laughing. Like family. Like is enough.

Krem elbows him, they cheer and drink.  
_'Horns pointing up.'_  
Smile at the newest barmaid, let her on him. He doesn't think much of it, Physical, primal. He doesn't see it, but he hears, and he feels.

Everyone does. Wakes Sera, the barman, he grumbles, sleep they won't get back. He won't remember next morning.

Smiles at me, a hand on my head. Kid.


	2. Cassandra Pentaghast

Seeker seeks a sick sic, cycling the enemy, searching.

The shield blocks the blow, not anger, but righteousness. Stand guard, vigilant, tall like a tower. The smell of candles, one knee on the ground, blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.

A new book from the library, an open window to the tavern's cheers. Letters arranged on her desk, a blanket on her shoulders for nights too long. Bandages hidden in a box, clean bed sheets. Sorted, arranged. Distractions, work, care. Neat, ready.

The rythm of a warsong, birds chirping, blade striking the dummy, draw the line. March, cut them down. There is but one Truth, all things are known to our Maker, and He shall judge their lies. Words of comfort, words she believes. She sees how they twist them, excuse their own sins, but she knows better.

Wrong, but right. Seeking to help, seeking the truth. Swallow the pain. Draw the line.

Faith seeks company in Compassion. The same, but different. The smell of pastries in the afternoon, the smile on a poor mother's face. She likes to help them. She tries. I try, too.

She understands. Closer to me than she thinks. A pat on the back, but always vigilant. If I turn, cut me down.


	3. Sera

Sera, a sing-song, de da, de da, Sera. Sera.

Sometimes, it's clothes set back where they belong, pillows set back on the window seat, a folded blanket and a closed window, a closed door when she takes her Honey Tongue outside, shut the tavern out. Sticking away from her eyes, from her bow. She takes notice. Sharp eyes, sharp, bright like sun on snow.

She doesn't like me when I look at her thoughts. Songs in her head, soft and cheery, like dancing wisps. Scattered thoughts, tied like dirty rope around rags in a damp street of the alienage, used as clothes until she finds something better. They're complicated, but they follow line together, free.

Twice, a new bottle of cheap Tevinter wine, weak and sour but she can drink it without worrying about mistakes. Arrows back in the quiver, a new candle in the cage. Six beads, fallen under the cabinet, a gift for herself.

I think she knows. She never speaks about it, but I hear her thoughts, the arrows flying behind my neck. Don't scream, they'll see you.  
_'Get out of my head, creepy. Should've killed it when it started.'_  
It would be easier to make her forget. I can't. I promised.

Books piling up, moved back to make room for more, a washed handerchief hidden under a pillow, a clean, sharpened knife for her hair.

She doesn't hate me helping, but she hates that I'm helping. Stale cookies, not right, wrong, dried raisin.  
_'Unreal, scary, is he going to burst into demons? Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.'_  
Varric told me that he'll help me not be so scary, but I can't make her forget the feelings.

She doesn't like them. If I keep helping, maybe they will change.


	4. Varric Tethras

Fingers on the table, a drink and a warm seat, content. He's full of people he made, of memories he keeps. He can't forget, he wrote them down.

The thief runs off with his life, the hawk catches her purse back as he tosses it to her. Eyes blue like the sky, and he smiles.  
_'How do you do? Varric Tethras, at your service.'_  
A well placed bolt, and the dragon topples down. He owes her a drink, now. Never thought it would lead them here.

Two cinnamon sticks in the fire, Bianca on the table just like before. The bard plucks her notes, he doesn't hurt when he writes. The old stone resonates, like the light on the walls.

Kid, kidding, jokes. Knock knock. He calls it word play, but I don't understand. Maybe I will.

Locked in, the thaig could come down on them at any time. Swears on his tongue, how could his brother do that? Sunshine's pale face, the hawk swallowing her tears as she brings the blade down. When the arrow hit Bartrand, he didn't feel anything. A contract sealed, signed.

A smile, playing innocent. Lying that comes like words under his pen, the easy path, easier, softer.

Two pairs beat one, four of a kind beats two pairs. Four, no, five aces. He scratches his chest, digging out a king from an inner pocket, switching the cards out. He'd call out Rivaini for messing with the deck, but it's his own hand.

He shuts his eyes, but things are the same. Ruffles smiles dangerously at Curly, and everyone laughs as he hands her his undergarnments.

He didn't want to be here, but he doesn't mind anymore. He doesn't mind showing me around, either.


	5. Dorian Pavus

Curious, examining. Trying to understand more, what's under, around. Bright enough to make shade, hide the bad things.

An open window, or a closed one. A bottle of Orlaisian wine, hidden, like a lost treasure. Clean and neat, dust removed from the books. Content, like the cat that ran away.

Caring, but a bit of bitterness. Always taking half-steps, looking all around before moving. Judging, but not harsh. Like his father, but not like him at all.

Choked down tears as he packs his bags, but legs walking strong away from his home. The man that fathered him isn't family. He isn't his father. Won't be. Won't accept. Neither will he. He wants to help, but it's poison, hands around his neck while saying he loves him.

Mustache twirled, fine cloths, a smell like nobles. One step ahead, but careful. Put on a smile, friendly. Curious, careful. Watch your back, watch yourself. Breathing softly, always learning.

Tangled, tight, with hurting and love. If I pull, it tears, but if I don't, it hurts.  
_'I'm on my own now.'_  
Smile. It's good. The fade pulls and turns around him, shimmering. Happy, curious, he wants to untangle the hurt himself.

I want to try more, but he doesn't want.


	6. Pride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short one, but I can't find much to write about solas. silly egg!

Both places at once, sharp, but, transparent. Quiet. A lighter song, pain almost silent against the memories.

Door locked, sometimes. Sleep, uninterupted. But there's always something bigger to do.

Ruins, older than him, eyes of Wisdom on him, but he smiles, and he speaks, softly, just like me. Friend in the sharp places, sharing stories and ideas. Walk the fade like an abandonned road, spirits like wildlife around him, and then, the moment, is gone.

Idylls of a lost king, cold, clammy hands. Prey birds circling, memory of a smell of hundred ages. Emerge transformed, in a million years.

Caring, and sadness. Grab hold of the morning, we will rise of the sky falls.

He says there's more important things to do. Cling to the past like a breeze he can't hold.


End file.
